


Secret-Fire

by MasterWizard566



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterWizard566/pseuds/MasterWizard566
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A point of view story focusing on the exploits and meanderings of Whiterun's Court Wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire. Contains relic-hunting, draugr-bashing, close encounters with dragons and of course plenty of snarky comments from everyone's favourite grumpy mage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Secret-Fire  
A Farengar Fanfiction

Chapter One-Before the Storm

Farengar Secret-Fire paced about his study, his body restless and his mind racing. Ever since the reports of the dragon attack on Helgen had reached the ears of Jarl Balgruuf, the wizard had been hard-pressed to seek out answers as to where this beast had come from, and more importantly why it had awoken. The mage frowned as he examined his drawers and bookshelves to seek out any references to the Dragon War and its ending. _There’s nothing I can learn from here_ , Farengar thought gloomily as he ran his fingers through the pages of his books, placing them carefully back onto the bookshelf with a look of despair on his face. If there had been anything of relevance on the matter within any of his tomes, he would have known off the top of his head-but he had double-checked just to be certain, and now he found himself feeling even more dejected than before. His time was running out and in all honesty he was beginning to wonder if his position as the Court Wizard of Whiterun would be reconsidered if he could not produce some evidence quickly, as the Jarl had placed every hope upon the knowledge and expertise of his magical advisor.

Farengar couldn’t help but laugh darkly to himself in regards to his predicament, for in truth the whole affair was not without a sense of irony. Ever since the man’s youth dragons had always held something of a fascination for Farengar: he had researched them meticulously and even now, well into his thirties, he marvelled at the fact that such mighty creatures once existed. While he did not doubt the old stories, even he had been taken aback by the sudden and unexpected appearance of a beast which many had seen as nothing more than an ancient legend, gone from the world and forgotten. Farengar reassured himself-if he of all people did not know the answer, then nobody in all of Whiterun, possibly in all of Skyrim, would be any the wiser either.

Sitting down at his desk and sighing, the wizard tried to collect his thoughts and calm himself. He had only just sat down when he heard the sound of footsteps walking towards his section of the hall. That was the last thing he needed to hear at this point. _I don’t have time to sell you spells, or teach you how to enchant your armour, or answer any or all of your banal_   _queries for that matter._ That was what he was going to say, until he realised that the person entering the chamber was in fact Jarl Balgruuf himself, accompanied by a brutish looking fellow with a fierce, war-like demeanour and a hard, unshaven face.

This is the last thing I need, Farengar thought to himself, expecting the Jarl to announce his replacement at any second.  
But that was not the purpose of the visit.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               “Farengar,” the Jarl called sharply, entering the room and moving to stand next to the mage’s desk. “I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your…dragon project. Go and fill him in with all the details.”  
Farengar was unconvinced. He stood and bowed respectfully at the Jarl, then cast his gaze suspiciously on the newcomer.                                                                                                   “So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?” he regurgitated. He thought to himself for a moment, before producing a scrap of parchment from one of the drawers beneath his desk. “Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean ‘delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.’”  
The heavily-built man seemed unperturbed.                                                                                                                                                                                                                           “Alright.” He said casually. “Where am I going and what am I fetching?”  

By this point in the day, Farengar was already at the end of his tether, so the man’s bluntness was actually a relief to him.  
“Ah-straight to the point, eh?” the wizard asked, and added without waiting for answer: “No need for any tedious hows and whys. I like that. Leave those details to your betters, am I right?”  
It clearly wasn’t the best thing to have said, because his condescension only made the warrior more eager to understand the purpose of the mission. Farengar couldn’t help but smile. “No mere brute mercenary but a thinker, then? Perhaps even a scholar? You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate recently, many dismissed them as mere fantasies-rumours, impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons-where had they gone all those years ago, and where were they coming from? I learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow,” he said, indicating the image on his parchment. “It is a Dragonstone, said to contain a map of ancient dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow: find this tablet, no doubt interred in the main chamber, and bring it to me-simplicity itself.”

The warrior was just about to leave the room before he turned and asked “What do you know about this ‘Bleak Falls Barrow’?”  
_I don’t have time for this_.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         “An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, probably dating back to the Dragon War itself,” the mage answered, before pausing to study the confused look on the man’s face. “Ah,” he realised. “Maybe you just want to know how to get there. It’s near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here. I’m sure some of the locals will be able to point you in the right direction once you get there.” Farengar was unable to mask his annoyance when he saw that the man still had more to say.                                                                                             “How do you know this tablet is actually in Bleak Falls Barrow?” the warrior asked suspiciously. Farengar rolled his eyes.                                                                                                           “Well, must preserve some professional secrets, mustn’t we?” he said with an air of superiority. “I have my sources-reliable sources.” _And they better be right, or else I’ll make an enemy of both the Jarl and his new mercenary._

“Now, off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you!” the wizard snapped, unable to contain his annoyance any longer. “The Jarl is not a patient man-neither am I, come to think of it!”  
“This is a priority now,” the Jarl reaffirmed. “We need this stone quickly, before it’s too late.” “Of course Jarl Balgruuf,” Farengar assured him. “You seem to have found me an able assistant. I’m sure he will prove most useful.” _Or not._  
“Succeed at this, and you’ll be rewarded,” the Jarl promised his warrior. “Whiterun will be in your debt.”

Farengar had his reservations, though he was sure to keep them to himself. If the truth were told he doubted he would see the man again, as Bleak Falls Barrow was reportedly swarming with Draugr and other fell creatures. Of course, Farengar hadn’t mentioned that-for one thing it would have put the man off, and if Balgruuf wanted to send the warrior to his doom then that his was his problem, not Farengar’s.  
_I have done all I can for now_ , the wizard thought. _Now, it’s about time I used up those soul gems._


	2. Chapter 2

_Secret-Fire_

_A Farengar Fanfiction_

Chapter Two-A Dragon on the Doorstep

 

Farengar was a tall, thin man with a long, gaunt face and large bushy sideburns. His piercing eyes were a deep sea green and his dark mid-length hair was braided at the sides-his hooded wizard’s robe was dyed a midnight blue. It was the same style of robe that all Court Wizards in Skyrim wore, but the clothing enhanced the man’s magicka tremendously, thanks to a few special enchantments that Farengar himself had imbued it with. His title ‘Secret-Fire’ he had earned during his studying days at Winterhold, when he shown a truly remarkable affinity with fire magic, being able to harness and alter the properties of the flames at will, using his mental energy to summon forth blue flames equal to the level of a master wizard. Faralda, Winterhold’s master of Destruction Magic, had declared that a hidden fire lived within the boy, and had given him the title that he had borne along with his forename name ever since, for Skyrim was a land that was fond of sobriquets.

Over the course of the next two days Farengar could do little but hold his breath and hope that the mercenary who had been sent to Bleak Falls Barrow had enough sense and wits to come back to him alive and in one piece-with the Dragonstone. At the Jarl’s orders scouts had been sent out across the hold to search for any clues about the dragon reappearance, and they had been commanded to report all of their findings to the Court Wizard. As such, Farengar was being constantly informed and updated-not that any of their findings held any value. The mage often was inclined to wonder as to whether or not he was the only Nord in Skyrim with a brain-it sometimes seemed that this assumption was not too far from the truth.

Slumping down onto his desk in frustration, the wizard opened one of the drawers and took out a bottle of mead, pulling the cork off and pouring a small amount of the liquid into the glass that lay next to the remains of his supper. It was rare for him to drink in large amounts, due mostly to the responsibility of his position, but he felt that he needed to consume some form of alcohol in order to keep his spirits in check. Looking at the pile of books on his desk, Farengar selected a tome and opened it to a chapter detailing the uses of Blisterwort-he had decided that, for the first time in days, he would try to take his mind off the dragon crisis for an hour or two.

He had only read the first two pages, and taken three of four small sips from his mead cup when he heard somebody clear their throat in front of him.

Farengar jumped out of his skin when he realised he was not alone. Standing before him was a hooded woman dressed head to toe in leather armour. A sword was girt at her side and she had sharp, hawk-eyed features and a determined look on her face.

In truth, Farengar was more than glad to see her, for she was the one who had told him of the location of the Dragonstone. Nevertheless, he was also more than a little irritated at her unexpected intrusion.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to knock next time?” he barked fiercely.

                                                                                                                                                                                     

“There’s no time for niceties, Farengar,” the woman, Delphine, returned his tone. “We have little time and I need to speak to you at once. I hear you have some information stored away in your books which relates to the origins of the dragons.” Farengar scoffed.

                                                                                                                                                                               

“Believe me,” he said casually, “There is nothing in my books that will avail us. Knowing the where’s and why’s of old legends will not aid us in stopping a dragon here and now. Besides, I’ve examined each text exhaustively-nothing they contain is of any use.”

“Even so, I should like to have look through some of those volumes,” Delphine reiterated. “I need to know everything that I can about dragons past and present, and at this moment knowledge is the equivalent of power.”

Farengar sighed.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

“Be my guest,” he said with a shrug, and pointed to the large pile of tomes on his desk. Delphine scrolled through them, and eventually opened one of the books at a section detailing the anatomy of the dragons.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

“This is what I was looking for,” she said, pulling out some parchment from her belt. On the paper there was a flowing script which detailed the physical properties of the dragons in a manner similar to the section of the book in front of them-the diagram was the same in both cases, but the writing on the scrap of parchment was in a strange language that the woman clearly did not understand. Farengar took the parchment from her and inspected it closely.

“The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier,” he deduced after a while. “I’m convinced this is a copy of a much older text.”

                                                                                     

“I’ll leave it with you,” Delphine said simply. “My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers.”

                                                                                                                               

“Oh have no fear,” Farengar assured her. “The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, which means I’m able to devote most of my time to this research.”

                                                      

“Time is running, Farengar, don’t forget. This is isn’t some theoretical question; dragons have come back.”                                        

“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” Farengar said simply, waving off her concerns. He thought for a moment. “Although,” he said as much to himself as to her, “the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable…” he trailed off, and then suddenly made the connection between the parchment he had been give and another passage in one of his books. “Let me show you something else I’ve found,” he began. “It’s very intriguing. I think your employers will be interested as well-”             

“You have a visitor.” Delphine cut him off.

“What?” Farengar looked up from his work and was surprised to see standing before him the mercenary he had sent off to Bleak Falls Barrow not two days hence.

“Bah!” he spurted out, startled by the man’s sudden appearance. “The Jarl’s protégé, back from Bleak Falls Barrow…you didn’t die, it seems…”                                                                     The mercenary merely snorted and reached for something inside his satchel, pulling out a large, ancient-looking stone adorned with ornate engravings.

Farengar could hardly believe his eyes. “The Dragonstone!” he exclaimed, breathless as a huge tide of relief washed over him. _Here is the answer to the riddle; if I can only decipher the text…_ He stared at the stone for a few seconds, before looking up at the mercenary with a sudden new respect. “It seems you are a cut above the usual brute the Jarl sends my way,” he said humbly. “Please forgive my earlier rudeness; I’m afraid I’m so used to idiots wondering in to my workroom that I can occasionally become quite savage.”                          

The man nodded.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

“So, now that you have the Dragonstone, what happens next?” he asked, clearly intrigued by the cryptic nature of the whole affair.

                                                                                       

“That is where your job ends and mine begins,” the mage assured him. “That is to say the work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim. My associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork: she discovered its location by means she has so far declined to share with me.” He turned back to Delphine.  “So, your information was correct after all, and now we have our friend here to thank for recovering it for us.”

Delphine too was looking at the warrior with a new-found respect.

                                                                                                                                                                                     

“You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work.” She turned back to Farengar and indicated the parchment. “Just send me a copy when you’ve deciphered it.”

“Farengar!”

A sharp, urgent call was heard from the hallway, and in moments Irileth, the Dark Elf Housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf, was standing in the room with Farengar and the others, a nervous look on her face.

“Farengar! You need to come at once! A dragon has been sighted nearby-You should come too,” she added, looking at the hard-faced warrior-Delphine had already left the chamber by the time Irileth had entered.

Somewhat curiously, but perhaps not surprisingly, Farengar found himself overwhelmed with excitement.

                                                                                                                         

“A dragon?!” he exclaimed, with all the enthusiasm of a child. “How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?”

                                                                                                             

“I’d take this a little more seriously if I were you,” Irileth retorted, giving him a stern look. “If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don’t know if we can stop it.”

Farengar found himself hurriedly following Irileth past the Jarl’s throne and up the steps to the second floor of Dragonsreach. The Jarl stood at the top of the steps waiting for them, and he nodded curtly as the Housecarl, the wizard and the warrior arrived. He looked resplendent in his ornate green Jarl robes and circlet, but the man beneath the garb was tired to the point of exhaustion. _As would I be in his place,_ Farengar thought. _At least I’ve been able to have a little rest over the past three days._

“So,” he said, turning to one of the guards standing in front of him. “Irileth tells me that you came from the Western Watchtower?”

                                                                    

“Jarl, that’s right,” the guard confirmed. “We saw it coming from the south. It was fast, faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

                                                                                             

“What did it do?” the Jarl asked worriedly. “Is it attacking the watchtower?”

                                                                                                                                                                         

“No, my lord-it was just circling overhead when I left. I’ve never ran so fast in my life-I thought it would have come after me for sure.”

                                                                                   

The Jarl thought for a moment, running his fingers through his beard as he was inclined to do when he was stressed.                                   

“Good work, son,” he said finally. “Head on down to the barracks for some food and rest-you’ve earned it. Irileth, you’d better get some guardsmen and get down there.”

                         

“I’ve already ordered my men to muster near the main gate,” the Dark Elf assured him.

  

“Good. Don’t fail me.” The Jarl turned to face his mercenary. “There’s no time to stand on ceremony, my friend-I need your help again. I need you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here, but I haven’t forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. You will be rewarded richly, but for now, take a gift of your choosing from my personal armoury-but be quick about it! Time is running out!”                                 

_He survived the attack on Helgen? That’s news to me,_ thought Farengar. _If this man is as skilled as his reputation suggests, then he is quite possibly the only hope we have against this beast._

_It’s now or never._

“Let me go along as well!” Farengar blurted out, failing to hide his obvious but foolish excitement. “I should very much like to see this dragon.”

                                                                 

“No,” the Jarl said firmly, and his tone brooked no room for argument. “I can’t afford to risk all three of you-I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           For a moment Farengar considered defying his orders, but he simply sighed and whispered:                                                                                                                                                     “As you command.”

As Irileth and the other men prepared to leave for the watchtower, Farengar couldn’t help but feel a sting of disappointment as he returned to his workroom. There was a jealousy there also: a strong animosity towards the Jarl’s mercenary burned inside him. _This man has not been in court two days and already he is everyone’s hero,_ he thought bitterly. He remembered how such brutes had bullied and mistreated him as a child, and how unsociable he had become as a result. It took him three good years at Winterhold before he had begun to truly open up, but even though he had made some good friends in the final two years of his training, he still harboured a natural dislike towards his fellow Nords.

He wanted nothing more in the world than to see a dragon-except to retain his position as Court Wizard, which could well be forfeit if he went against the Jarl’s orders (assuming of course that he somehow managed to survive the encounter with the dragon). Jarl Balgruuf was a good man but he would suffer no challenges to his authority-indeed his legendary temper rivalled even Farengar’s own volatile disposition.

Sulking inwardly, the wizard absently opened one of his dragon books and continued to study the beasts; but nothing helped him to take his mind off that which he was missing out on. _A chance to see a living dragon up close-and I am forbidden to leave by duty?_ There was a time when a younger, more reckless Farengar would have set all of Skyrim aflame for such an opportunity-but now with the years he had begun to mellow, even if he was still relatively young in the years of men.

What Farengar hadn’t counted on was his own fatigue, and in a short while after opening his book he had collapsed on top of it, his head buried in its pages. He slept uneasily, whilst fire and dragons haunted his restless dreams.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three-A Hero of Legend

As Farengar dreamt the dragon circled the sky above him, looking down at him with an empty eye of mockery. Such was the steely ferocity of that stare that the mage found himself unable to look away: the hypnotic gaze of the serpent seemed to penetrate his every thought...

Sweating with unconscious dread, the Court Wizard awoke to the most ear-splitting sound that he had ever experienced. In all his thirty-four years he had never heard anything comparable. The noise was so phenomenally loud that for a few seconds he thought that his skull would split from the force, until, as sharply as it had begun, the noise disintegrated.

_It was a voice. No, many voices._ The wizard’s brain tried to comprehend what he had just heard, when he suddenly realised the word that the chorus had spoken.

_The Dragonborn has returned._

Coming out of his own thoughts, Farengar suddenly realised that the hallway before him was up in arms-people were shouting, questioning and debating what in the world they had just heard.

The throng broke into silence as the doors to the great keep of Dragonsreach opened, revealing the Housecarl Irileth and the surviving members of her company. At her side walked the brute Farengar envied, his horned iron helm still atop his head and his long flowing hair sweeping down to his shoulders, making him look like some revered hero of old. A strange and somewhat curious expression was etched upon the face of Irileth, as if she had witnessed something unworldly and strange. More than anything else, she looked frightened. _An ill notion for us all,_ the wizard thought.

“Good, you’re finally here-the Jarl’s been waiting for you!” Proventus Avenicci was bold to address the Jarl’s Housecarl in such a manner, but the woman gave no answer, and walked past him to bow down at the feet of Balgruuf.

Balgruuf bade her arise.“What happened at the watchtower?” he asked concernedly. “Was the dragon there?”                                

Irileth nodded slowly. “The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon.”                                                      

A cheer arose in the hallway, but Balgruuf raised his hands for silence.                                                          

“I knew I could count on you, Irileth,” he said with pride, “But there must be more to it than that.”                                                                                                                                                                                       

Irileth did not answer. Instead it was the mercenary who approached.                                                                     

“Forgive my interruption, my Jarl,” he said apologetically, “But I fear that only I can attempt to explain what happened. I wish not for any individual praise or thanks, but it was I who slew the dragon with a well-placed shaft. It was reeling in pain when we found it on the ground, and as it fought for life I cut the beast’s throat with my blade. When the dragon died, I absorbed some kind of power from it-I felt very strange, as if I had received great knowledge that I somehow could not understand.”

There was an audible gasp throughout the hallway, and Balgruuf stared at the warrior in disbelief.

“So it’s true!” he cried, “The Greybeards really were summoning you!”

The Dragonborn looked confused. “The Greybeards?” he asked.                                                                                           

“Masters of the Way of the Voice,” the Jarl explained. “They live in seclusion upon the slopes of the Throat of the World. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift!”

“Didn’t you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?” the Jarl’s burly brother, Hrongar, questioned the Dragonborn. “That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. Such a thing has not happened in centuries at least-not since Tiber Septim himself, when he was still Talos of Atmora.”

_Of course,_ thought Farengar. _Of course it was the Greybeards._ His mind had been swimming as a result of his restless dreams, and the sound of the call that awoke him had given him a splitting headache, so it was no wonder that he himself had been unable to put two and two together. 

“Hrongar, calm yourself!” the Jarl’s Steward Proventus retorted. “What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I don’t see any signs of him being this-what-Dragonborn?”

“Nord nonsense?” Hrongar fumed. It was common knowledge that the Jarl’s brother disliked the Redguard, and that their views regarding Whiterun’s role in the civil war were at odds on every level. “Why, you puffed-up ignorant! These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!”

“Hrongar, don’t be so hard on Avenicci,” the Jarl reprimanded, his intermission preventing the dispute from turning into something more vicious.

“I meant no disrespect of course,” Proventus assured the Court. “It’s just, what do these Greybeards want with him?” he cast his suspicious gaze upon the Dragonborn once again.               

“That’s the Greybeards’ business, not ours,” the Jarl said firmly. He turned to the Dragonborn. “You’d better get up to High Hrothgar immediately-there’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards-it’s a tremendous honour. I envy you, you know; to climb the seven thousand steps again. I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place, very disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what’s going on down here! They haven’t seemed to care before…ah, no matter. You’ve done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It’s the greatest honour that’s within my power to grant.”

As the Dragonborn bowed deeply and took his leave of the Jarl, Farengar felt the tinge of jealousy building up inside him again. As the man began to walk from the hallway Farengar saw him stop and turn, as if he had remembered something. Cursing under his breath, the wizard realized that the insufferable hero was making towards his study!

_Ah, a visit from the almighty Dragonborn,_ Farengar thought to himself, snorting. _What have I done to be thus honoured?_                                                                                                                                                     

“What do you need?” the Court Wizard asked sourly.                                                                                      

“I was wondering if you’d be able to answer a couple of questions I have concerning the Dragonborn…you are a man of learning, after all.”                                                                            

_Flattery won’t get you far,_ the wizard could have said, but in truth he was extremely intrigued by the whole affair, though he did his best to hide it.                                                                                              

“Fire away,” he said with a sigh.                                                                                                                              

“What do you know about shouts?”

Farengar thought for a moment.

“Only what I’ve heard in the old stories,” he said finally. “Tales about the Dragonborn who would use the power of the Voice to defeat the enemies of Skyrim-but that all ended when Martin died during the Oblivion Crisis. I’m sorry, I really don’t know much more than that-but if you can shout, then you must see the Greybeards, as others have said. They’ll know what to do.”                                                  

The Dragonborn nodded.

“I appreciate your help nonetheless,” he answered. “Hopefully the Dragonstone will provide you with the answers you need in order for us to better defend ourselves against these monsters.” He was just about to leave the room when he stopped and turned back.

_Again._

“Oh,” he said, as if he’d just remembered something important. “I took this from the dragon when it was slain-I thought you might like it.” He fiddled around inside his pack and produced a large white claw that had belonged to the former menace. The Dragonborn smiled and handed it to the wizard.

Farengar could hardly believe his eyes. Here he was, holding in his hands the foot of a creature that, until recently, had been presumed to be legend, extinct or even non-existent.  His arms trembled, and after a long, quiet moment, he looked back up at the face o the Dragonborn.

“I…” he stumbled for words as he tried to express his gratitude. “I honestly don’t know how to thank you enough. I must admit that I misjudged you wholly. Please, take anything you like-I have plenty of books and nearly as many potions and ingredients as Arcadia herself can boast.”

Ultimately the Dragonborn only took a small healing potion, and only because Farengar had insisted, but when the man left the room the wizard genuinely found himself humbled and taken aback by the whole affair. A servant passed through with his evening meal, and he thanked her absentmindedly but ignored the food on his table for well over an hour as he obsessively studied the ancient claw. Not only did he sketch it from several angles, he worked out the structure of each and every bone in the foot and noted down each minor observation that he found. It was well past midnight when he dragged himself to bed, locking the claw away in the safest drawer that small room offered.  


End file.
